


A Virtuous Woman

by drivingsideways



Series: A Pair of Swallows [3]
Category: Serenade of Peaceful Joy (TV), 孤城闭 | Held in the Lonely Castle (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Romance, Spoilers for episodes 46-48, but it's pretty sad overall!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24133162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drivingsideways/pseuds/drivingsideways
Summary: The Emperor had been at Kunning Hall last night, the first time in almost fifteen years that had happened.The Emperor had been at Kunning Hall last night, and this morning, the Empress had donned her Imperial Robe like an armour and demanded the death of a slip of a girl for an offense that she might have treated more lightly on any other day.
Relationships: Cao Danshu/Zhang Maoze
Series: A Pair of Swallows [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726612
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set on the day after the Palace Rebellion takes place.   
> The rape referenced here- not *very* graphically, let's say it's canon level- is what Renzong does to Danshu in ep 46. This story is set in the aftermath of that incident. If that is likely to be upsetting for you, please back out now.

It’s Qiuhe who delivers the message.

She looks terrified, but also resolute, and slips away before he can ask her anything further.

It’s only the first watch of the night, and message says she will meet him at the third.

Mechanically, he continues what he was doing- clearing up the mess left by Yang Huamin or his henchmen. What had he been looking for?

Did he think that Maoze was fool enough to leave something lying around that might implicate him?

Of course, there was plenty that _did_ implicate him- but Yang Huamin didn’t know where to look, and even if he did, what would he know?

Would a forgotten garden, a wall covered by wintersweet mean anything to _him?_

Yang Huamin hadn’t been there to see his face last night, when he’d found his way to Kunning Hall and saw her standing there, tall and proud, sword clasped in hand, and defiance in her eyes.

He hadn’t been there to watch Maoze prepare the needles to treat Zhang _meiren,_ and pause for a foolish, _revealing_ minute- before he had continued his task.

The audacity of that _whore,_ he thinks, snapping a box shut.

To stand there, openly defying the Empress.

And the Emperor , he had—

_The Emperor had been at Kunning Hall last night._

Maoze has spent twenty hours very carefully not thinking on that fact too much.

It had been providence.

If he’d been at Funing Hall instead, who knows how the night might have ended?

But the Emperor had been at Kunning Hall, and then Zhang _meiren_ had shown up, shameless and wanton as ever, and the Emperor had let her _insult_ the Empress, in front of the entire staff before he had finally had her escorted out.

Maoze had not dared look at the Empress’ face then, for fear of what his own might show.

He had called on all his long years of training, the days and nights of standing still, not even shuffling around, not even when his neck and back and legs _ached_ from the effort.

If he had looked at her- he might not have been able to stop himself from breaking that woman’s neck with his bare hands.

He would have done it quickly, before anybody could react, and he would not have minded the death.

He finds he has crumpled the papers in his hands almost to pulp.

Slowly, deliberately, he unclenches his fingers and smooths them out, before putting them away.

The Emperor had been at Kunning Hall last night, the first time in almost _fifteen_ years that had happened.

The Emperor had been at Kunning Hall last night, and this morning, the Empress had worn her Imperial Robe like an armour and demanded the death of a slip of a girl for an offense that she might have treated more lightly on any other day.

He had allowed himself to look at her then, tension coiling in his gut.

Of course, he’d known why she was doing it- already the palace was abuzz with the conspiracy theories, and if he guessed correctly, Zhang Bihan’s allies and Xia Song’s followers in the court would seize the opportunity to hurt the Empress.

_You don’t have to do this,_ he had wanted to shout.

_I will protect you, I will make sure that nobody can touch you._

_You don’t have to sully your hands like this, you don’t need to suffer for this._

For it was obvious to _him_ that she was suffering, deeply.

It was obvious to him that there was nothing holding her spine so straight and her head so high except her indomitable will.

The Emperor, of course, chose to think of it as yet another way she was defying him.

He’d bowed to her before he followed guanjia out- the only thing he could do, the slightest of reminders, _I am here, you have my respect, always._

But she hadn’t looked at him, just stood there like a statue, eyes lowered.

_You brought her down to this level,_ he’d thought, resentment curdling on his silent tongue, two steps behind the _Son of Heaven_.

_She will never forgive herself for it, and you won’t even know. You won’t know because you don’t care to look, and if you do, you never see, because all you see are your own grievances._

In the early years, he’d thought- it’s just a matter of time.

He’ll recognize her worth, how could he not?

He’ll recognize what a treasure the gods have given him, and how precious she is.

And then later- may the ancestors forgive him- he had thought, _don’t_ look at her, _don’t_ touch her.

She’s not _yours_.

When the wintersweet had bloomed last winter- after two years of patient waiting, he had sent her a message- a drawing- under the pretext of sending her some plans for the palace maintenance.

He hadn’t dared take the risk then of accompanying her there; he supposed it would be Qiuhe, if she went at all.

For days after, he had wondered.

Had she?

And then one day, Huaiji had casually mentioned how entranced Huirou had been by the wintersweet in Huanghou niangniang’s chambers.

He’d had to turn away, unable to control his expression.

That very night, he’d gone to the garden himself, and found the branches where she’d snipped off the flowers.

He’d cut a sprig for himself and brought it back to his chambers, and let the fragrance soothe him to sleep.

The gong sounds.

Has it only been half past the hour?

Sighing, he rolls his aching shoulders, and picks up his neglected cup of tea.

It’s gone cold, slightly bitter, and he grimaces, but swallows it anyway.

He has work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Tonight, there is no sweet fragrance awaiting him in the garden.

Instead, her pale face, above the simple robes of a lower ranked palace attendant.

He almost doesn’t see her, the clouds obscuring her from his sight until the moon suddenly comes out, revealing her slender silhouette.

She rises from the wooden bench he’d fashioned from the logs, as he hurries to her.

“ _Niangniang_ ” he says, bowing deeply.

“Pingfu” she says, and it sounds- sounds entirely _wrong_ like that.

He straightens up immediately, alarmed.

“ _Niangniang_ ” he says, “What is the matter?”

“Where was she buried?” she asks, and her voice sounds scraped over.

He takes a deep breath.

“Outside the palace walls” he says. And then he adds, gently, “It was quick, she didn’t suffer”.

No need to mention that Yan Cailing had woken up once from her faint, and then started struggling, wailing, until they’d subdued her, and then she’d fainted again, and hadn’t woken up.

It hadn’t been difficult for the executioner; the sword had gone clean through her neck in one stroke.

Danshu shudders, her shoulders trembling, and she bites her lip until it looks bloodless.

“ _Niangniang_ ” he says softly, “Here, sit down”.

He touches her elbow, gently drawing her down to the bench, before kneeling in front of her.

She’s staring, sightless, at some point over his shoulder.

“ _Huanghou_ ” he murmurs, “She committed a grave offence, and she paid for it”.

That draws her gaze to him.

“And I?” she asks, her voice quiet. “Have I not committed a grave offence too?”

“No” he starts, and stops when she inhales shakily, interrupting.

“Pingfu, _please_. Don’t- don’t- try to placate me with lies. I know what I have _done_ , what I have _become_ ”.

“ _Niangniang_ ” he tries again, “You have always been and still are the most virtuous—”

“Stop!”

Her cry shatters the stillness of the night.

He stares at her, shocked.

She presses both her hands to her mouth, and her eyes fill up.

They sit like that for a long moment, her eyes closed, tears streaming as she attempts to muffle her sobs.

He cannot bear it, he reaches out to draw her hands away from her mouth, taking them in both of his.

They are damp with her tears when he raises them to his lips, presses soft kisses on her knuckles, and then turning them over, into the center of her palms.

Her hands clutch at his, and her hiccupping sobs quieten, as he holds her hands.

“I don’t know who I am anymore” she says quietly, “I don’t know _what_ I am, anymore”.

Her eyes, red-rimmed, are bleak.

“Cao Danshu” he whispers, “That is who you are, and will always be”.

She inhales shakily, and sways toward him.

He leans forward, letting her rest her head on his shoulder, in the crook of his neck.

Her hands rest against his chest, and he can the pull of the cloth as she fists the fabric.

The shell of her ear brushes against his jaw, her breath warm on his neck.

Slowly, he lets his arms come around her, holding her, gently, carefully, as he might a bird that might fly away any moment.

He lets his head tilt, so that his cheek rests against the crown of her head, her silky hair smooth against it.

They stay like that for a long while.

An owl hoots.

Far away, he hears the sound of the gong, beating quarter past the hour.

He doesn’t move, though his knees ache.

Long years of training have taught him this stillness, and at last now, there is some use for the tedium of those hours.

She mumbles something into his neck.

He bends his head down further, to hear better.

“The Emperor accuses me of using virtue and propriety as a weapon against him” she’s saying.

“I’ve seen you use a weapon” he reminds her, softly, “that is not how you wield your character”.

She’s silent for a long minute.

“Last night” she says, and now her voice is clearer, though still soft. “Last night, we fought again, as we have so many times. The same argument that we’ve had before, over and over, my tongue loosened by wine”.

He raises his head, wanting to see her face, but she turns her face even more into his shoulder.

“No” she says quietly, “Please, Pingfu.”

He swallows hard, a knot of tension in his stomach.

_The Emperor had stayed at Kunning Hall last night._

He brings up one hand, to gently rest it against the back of her head, cradling it.

“It’s alright” he whispers. “It’s alright. You can tell me”.

After a pause, she continues.

“Qiuhe says I have not been honest with myself or him, that I don’t see the ways he cares for me, because it’s not the way I _want_ him to care for me”.

_What does Qiuhe know,_ he thinks, _she_ has not been here for all these many years.

“I have…” she continues, “I _have_ hidden from him, it’s true. I have hidden from him anything that might _inconvenience_ him, because I didn’t want to be a burden to him, any more than I always was. I hid my tears and my anger and my _weariness_ …”

“He knows” he says, abruptly. “He has always known”.

Because it’s true.

He knows because Maoze has told him, because Maoze had tried, in those early years.

But guanjia had not wanted to hear it, and what guanjia didn’t _want_ to hear, he need not.

What guanjia didn’t want to see, he need not.

“He said I had never treated him as a _man_ , the way he wanted to be, that he was always the Emperor in my eyes, and never just my husband”.

The silence between them stretches out.

“He _is_ the Emperor” Maoze says, at last, his voice gone tight. “Though he likes to pretend he’s not, sometimes”.

Sometimes, when it was convenient for him to.

Like when he had brought Zhang Bihan into the harem.

“I fell in love with the Emperor” she whispers, “all those years ago. I wanted to serve the Emperor, to be by his side, to be his partner in all things, in the only way I could, in the only way I was _allowed._ To uphold the virtue of the dynasty, of our nation. And everyone said- that he was kind, benevolent, sage—somebody worthy of giving my service to”.

Maoze had thought so too, once.

“All these years, I told myself, that whatever else happened, at least I knew _that_ to be true”.

He closes his eyes and presses his lips tight.

He feels her shudder all over.

“Last night” she says, and her voice falters, “Last night”.

He cannot bear to hear this, but he must.

She had borne it, so he must.

She takes a deep shaky breath.

“Last night he was angry- so angry- and when I asked him to leave, he refused. And then- then…”

He exhales shakily.

“On the table” she says, and then the words are tumbling out of her, jumbled, rushed. “He held me down and -he didn’t even bother to take off his clothes- and I- I- just—I couldn’t—and the worst of it—worse than the pain and the humiliation—the worst of it—was that afterward—I lay there next to him while he slept and thought—if _this_ was the only way I could have him, then perhaps it was alright, and perhaps, perhaps, he would at least _now_ —"

She’s trembling all over.

He cannot bear it, he _cannot_ , he turns his face into her hair, his own cheeks damp, and he tightens his arm around her.

She makes a small sound, like a wounded animal, and suddenly, she’s in his arms, both of them kneeling in the dirt, in an embrace so fierce, he can barely breathe.

“Danshu” he whispers, “Danshu.”

He cannot _think_ for the rage coursing through his veins, for the physical pain that is his shattered heart—

He strokes his hand down her back, mumbles nonsense into her hair, promises he cannot keep, words that have no meaning.

Eventually, her trembling subsides, but she doesn’t raise her head.

He strokes her hair gently and loosens his hold.

“Danshu” he says, softly, “please. Look at me”.

“I can’t” she whispers. “I’m so ashamed”.

“Look at me” he pleads. “Danshu.”

She does not.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of” he says, softly, trying to convey in his voice, the conviction in his heart.

After a moment, she raises her head to look at him, face tear-streaked and eyes swollen.

She leans back, and he withdraws immediately, his hands dropping to his sides.

He will never hold her against her will.

She settles back on her haunches and looks up at him, swiping her tears away.

“But I _do_ ” she says, softly. “I _am_ ashamed of what I let him make me into- a cowardly, scared thing, always afraid of his displeasure, trying to contort myself into the shape of his wants, hiding my thoughts, letting my anger eat at every good thing in me, willing to make myself small, to excuse his every excess and cruelty- because I didn’t want to admit that the man I was in love with existed only in my imagination….and today- today I let that cowardice lead me to take a life—Pingfu, tell me- what claim have I now to any virtue….!”

“You have more claim to it than any person I know” he says, truthfully. “If it were not so, you wouldn’t be here, with your heart cleaved in two by remorse---”

“Remorse doesn’t bring back the dead” she says, softly, her head bowed.

“No” he agrees. “But it sets us on the right path once more….”

He reaches out, presses a hand to her cheek.

“If you cannot believe in yourself for now” he says quietly, “Let me believe it for you until you can”.

She closes her eyes, and turns her cheek into his palm, pressing into it.

“Pingfu” she says, softly. “Pingfu”.

Just that, and nothing else.

He inches forward on his knees, and leans in toward her again, presses his forehead against hers, hand still on her cheek, closes his eyes.

Another gong sounds- and he notes that it is the one calling the hour. He had not heard the others.

He doesn’t want to leave.

She sighs, a soft, weary sound.

A hand finds his cheek, strokes his cheekbone.

He wants to fly away with her, take wing like the swallows in summertime, chasing the clear blue sky, until they find a safe shelter to call home.

But if he can’t, then he will kneel here in the dirt with her.

“Pingfu” she says, drawing away at last.

The places where they are no longer touching feel bereft.

Her eyes are still swollen and red-rimmed, but her face and voice are calm.

“I cannot tell what the next days will bring” she says, softly. “If the court forces an investigation into Kunning Hall after all—”

“That will not happen” he says, firmly.

“Pingfu” she says, a troubled frown creasing her brow. “Do not put yourself in danger!”

“I’m in no danger” he responds, confident.

She looks disbelieving, worried.

“ _Huanghou niangniang_ does not trust my competence?” he murmurs, teasing a little.

It has the effect he wants- her frown eases into a wry smile.

“I believe you will very _competently_ get yourself into trouble! And…”

She pauses.

“I may not be able to protect you if you do” she adds, quietly. “So, for my sake, _please_ —”

He shakes his head.

“I will act carefully” he promises, “but I will not promise to stand aside. I _cannot_ ”.

“Pingfu” she says, and it’s strange, how he’s beginning to understand all the different ways she says his name.

“You cannot wield your sword” he tells her, “So I will be it”.

She takes a deep breath.

“I do not know whether to believe that there’s justice in the world anymore” she says, softly. “All I see ahead of me are more losses that I don’t know if I will have the strength to bear”.

“I promised you I will never let you lose”.

“I would rather lose everything than you”.

She says it so quietly, but reverberates like an earthquake through him.

“Danshu” he chokes out.

She gets up and holds out her hand to him.

He takes it and gets to his feet.

A gong sounds once more: another quarter hour has passed.

They walk in silence to the gate, fingers entwined.

Beyond that gate lies the world, an open-mouthed monster with its sharpened teeth of rules, and decorum, and piety.

They pause there, and her fingers squeeze around his, almost painful.

Then slowly she lets go, and steps forward.

He sees the subtle squaring of her shoulders, the straightened line of her back, and the defiant tilt of that graceful neck before she steps across the threshold and disappears into the night.

_Danshu,_ he whispers, holding her name close like a talisman, as he follows her out.


End file.
